“Why can’t you just understand that I need to work?! You always follow me whenever I’m home, and I can’t do a damn thing without you sticking your nose into it!” I yell out, immediately regretting it as I see our four-year-old son’s eyes glitter with tears as he launches out of my home office.

Shit. I just yelled at my own kid for being a kid. Great fucking parenting, Harry.

I rub my face and get up, knowing there’s no way I can do anything before I apologize to my kid. I take a deep breath and walk downstairs. Dorian is already cradled in your arms as you hold his tiny, trembling body protectively. You give me a death stare, and although you’re mad at me, I can’t help but admire how fiercely protective you are of our little boy—even when it comes to me, your husband.

But if you ever wondered what a CEO is afraid of? His angry wife.

Dorian is sobbing in your arms, tears soaking your shirt, and my heart clenches. I’m the reason he’s trembling.

“Dodo, I’m sorry…” I say gently, kneeling down in front of both of you, my voice low, raw with regret. My throat feels tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t let me breathe right until I fix this.

He doesn’t look at me.

He buries his face further into your shoulder, little fists clinging to your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Your hand is rubbing slow circles over his back, but your eyes—your eyes—are locked on mine, cold and sharp, holding me accountable without a single word.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” I continue quietly, watching Dorian’s back rise and fall with shaky breaths. “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby. I was just… frustrated. And I let it out in the worst way possible.”

Still nothing. No movement. Just those little hiccuped sobs that tear through me.

“I love you,” I whisper. “So much. More than anything. And I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t wanted near me. That’s never, ever true. You’re always allowed near me. Always.”

Finally, he shifts a little—enough for me to see one tear-streaked cheek and those wide, wet eyes peeking out from your shoulder.

“You… yelled,” he says, small and cracked.

I nod, my heart sinking all over again. “I did. And I was wrong.”

His lip wobbles, but he doesn’t look away this time. “I just wanted to give you my drawing…”

Oh God. I’m such a dick.

I close my eyes for a second, willing myself not to break down in front of him.

You let out a breath that sounds more like a warning than a sigh, and I nod again—this time to you. I know. I deserve it.

I hold out my hands. “Can I see it, bunny? Please?”

He hesitates, then slowly lifts the crumpled piece of paper from where it was folded in his tiny fist. You let him slide off your lap, and he pads over to me with a quiet sniff, handing it to me without a word.

It’s a drawing of the three of us—stick figures, of course—but I know which one is me because I’m holding a laptop and wearing a crown. You have a heart on your shirt, and Dorian’s drawn with arms outstretched between us, smiling wide.

There’s a sun in the corner, and Bowie the dog is a scribbled blob with ears, right next to us.

I can’t help it—tears sting my eyes.

“This is beautiful,” I whisper. “You made me a king.”

He nods, lip still quivering. “Because you’re the boss.”

I wrap him in my arms, pulling him to my chest so gently, like I’m afraid I’ll hurt him again just by touching him wrong. “I’m not the boss, Dorian,” I whisper into his hair. “You are. You’re my whole world, okay?”

He sniffles again and nods, this time a little firmer, pressing his cheek into my shoulder.

When I look up, you’re still sitting on the couch, arms crossed, brows drawn.

But your eyes have softened.

And even if I’ve got a long way to go to earn back your trust tonight, I know one thing for sure:

I’ll never raise my voice at our son again.

Not when I have something so much more powerful—love, and the courage to say I’m sorry.

“How about some ice cream and Harry Potter?” I wipe his tears away.

“But you’re working,” he sniffles.

“For you, I’m not.” I kiss his head softly.